Sweet Filth From Your Mouth - Primeval - Becker/Connor
Title: Sweet Filth From Your Mouth
Pairing: Becker/Connor
Word Count: 1647
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the 'dirty talk' square of my kink bingo card.
Summary: "Connor never stops talking while they are working - Becker thinks, belatedly, that he should have realised that he wouldn't shut up in bed either."
Connor never stops talking while they are working - Becker thinks, belatedly, that he should have realised that he wouldn't shut up in bed either.
"Been thinking about this all day," Connor says, wriggling like live fluid in Becker's lap as he tries to pull their clothes free all at once. He is tangled in the straps of Becker's empty holsters, with so much to unclip and unwind. "Wanting you inside me. Your cock..."
Connor doesn't give details, and for that Becker can only be thankful. He doesn't think he would be able to remain in control. A sticky stain would coat the inside of his trousers.
They are cramped and cornered in the front seat of Becker's car, barely hidden from the outside world. Becker chooses a secluded parking spot in the mornings, but 'secluded' is different from 'invisible'. Anyone could walk past; Becker doesn't think he would ever be able to stop blushing if Lester walked past them like this. It isn't as if their arrangement (relationship? Becker doesn't know what this is) is a secret - but it is private.
Yet Connor is in his lap and his lips are pushing insistently along Becker's jawline, and no man in the world is strong enough to resist that. Becker's hands slide down to cup the roundness of Connor's arse through his ridiculously tight jeans: impractical. It's clear he isn't a soldier, but right now Becker doesn't care to scold him. He runs his fingers along the seam of his jeans, tracing the ass crack underneath. "God, yeah," Connor breathes against his skin. "You need to fuck me. Here."
And they can't. They really can't. "At home, Connor," Becker says - he doesn't know whose 'home' he is talking about. Perhaps it doesn't matter. He has spent as many nights in Connor's room as in his own bed. They are trapped together, whether they want to be or not.
"No." Connor shakes his head, immature and insistent: wanting everything now, immediately, no time for waiting. "Here, right here."
"We'll be caught," Becker says. He is trying to sound stern, but with Connor's hips pushing against him 'stern' is impossible: pliant, willing and weak are all that he can manage.
"So?" Connor pants. He doesn't mean that, can't mean that. Despite the prat-falls and idiocy of his every day life, Becker thinks that Connor must still have some vague sense of shame. "Let them catch us, I don't care. They can see you fucking me, here."
Becker chokes on a lungful of air, unable to breathe past the images that Connor is implanting in his mind.
"Yeah, here," Connor repeats, with a hint of a moan that is far more sexual than anyone like Connor has a reasonable right to sound. "It'll let them all know I'm yours, right?"
Becker nods, blindly, and he allows his large hand to slip around to the back of Connor's neck, holding him still for a moment. "Are you?" he asks.
They've never said that before. This odd, helpful arrangement between the pair of them had been unspoken; he has never allowed himself to think about it.
"Yours?" Connor asks, and there's a note of breathless desperation in his voice that lets Becker know not to trust a word he says right now. He can't hold him to any of it. It would be unfair: cheating. "Sure, I'm yours. Completely. Honest."
Becker nods. "Goes both ways," he says, even if Connor doesn't look at him in the way that he looks at Abby. That's fine with Becker. He has never been looking for anything too emotionally complicated anyway.
Connor tilts his hips back and sits straddled across Becker's lap. He reaches between them to rip open Becker's trousers and pull out his cock, red and hard and so public, now. Connor spits into his hand to slick things along, and even if Becker won't fuck him here in a public parking lot (he can't let himself do it here) it will make this feel a lot better. Connor's hand is sturdy and confident as he grasps hold of him.
"Yours," he repeats again. "Anything you want to do with me, you can. I promise I won't say no. I'll try anything once." Connor smiles, wide and dopey. It should be impossible for anyone to look so cheerfully enthusiastic while they have a sinful grasp on a person's cock. "Anything you want. When we make it back to yours, you could tie me up if you'd like. Scarves or handcuffs or whatever. Right around my wrists. Hold me down."
Becker groans and pushes his hips upwards, nearly dislodging Connor in his single-minded attempt to get more of the sensation on offer. Connor's hand moves a little bit too slowly: not quite what he needs. He can only hope that Connor won't decide to make him beg for it.
"You could hit me," Connor suggests, and when Becker muffles a cry Connor's grin widens. "Yeah, hold me down over your lap and slap my arse. How's that sound?"
Becker nods blindly. It sounds good. Everything sounds good right now. His eyes close, screwed tightly, and all that he can feel is Connor's hand on his dick, all he can hear is Connor's smiling, dirty voice.
"Hit me 'til my skin goes red, until I'm begging for you to stop because it hurts too much or feels too good or something like that." Connor runs his free hand through Becker's hair, messing up every neatened lock.
"I'm going to gag you," Becker says, surprising himself by being able to say a single word.
Connor falters, his hand stopping. "Sorry," he says. Becker opens his eyes and finds that kicked-puppy expression on Connor's face, the kind of look designed to make a man feel guilty. "Am I annoying you? I didn't mean to."
"No, no, it's not that." Becker shakes his head in a hurry, almost making himself dizzy, because that is the furthest thing from the truth he could imagine. He is achingly hard in Connor's motionless hand because of the words that have spilled from Connor's seemingly innocent lips. "I can't think. When you're talking, I can't think."
Connor seems to relax, reassured, and his hand begins to move again. Becker gives a groaning sigh of relief and melts into his seat, allowing Connor to become his world once more. "I don't want you to think," Connor says. "Thinking is for when you're being the 'big bad soldier'. When you're with me..." His thumb drags over the tip of Becker's cock, pressure firm and perfect. Becker cries out, loud enough that he knows they must be able to hear him outside of the car.
A wet stripe along his neck tells him that Connor's tongue is tasting his skin, licking away the damp sweat that gathers there. Becker shivers, on the edge by now and close to spilling over completely. "When you're with me, I don't think you should be thinking anything at all. I'm not. Away from you, my head gets all busy. Evolution and anomalies and everything. It's mad." As Connor speaks, Becker tries incredibly hard to listen. With Connor's hand jerking him off, it is all that he can do to remember to breathe. Connor's words filter through him, wrap around him, and pull him another precious inch closer to the edge. "But when you're here - all I think about is getting you like this. All sweaty and red and hot. So bloody gorgeous like this, I mean it. Jesus."
Becker clings onto Connor's hips, nearly dislodging him once more as he thrusts up and up into the tight embrace of his fist. This is perfect, perfect, exactly what he needs after a day at the Arc. His hand slides up to the back of Connor's head as he feels himself right on the edge, and he pulls him forward - kisses that dirty mouth so that Connor falls silent with a pleased grunt. Becker's body burns and aches so sweetly, and the car is filled with the slick sound of skin on skin, of the wet sticking smacks of Connor's hand around his cock.
Connor's tongue is as wicked when they kiss as when they talk, flicking inside Becker's mouth: Becker can do little more than open his mouth and allow the invasion, too lost to participate further, but Connor seems willing to accommodate such unhelpfulness. He kisses with an earnestness that becomes him, wet enthusiasm spurred with endless energy. Becker's body tightens and winds until he cries out against the gag of Connor's mouth, spilling across his fist and shirt.
Connor strokes him through his orgasm, dragging it out and leaving Becker whimpering beneath him, lost and found at once.
Connor's lips leave his mouth and he travels across Becker's jaw, trailing kisses and flashes of his tongue that tease and promise at once. "You're so hot," he mutters over and over again. "So hot; how is that even possible? Christ."
Becker catches his breath and slides his hand around to the small of Connor's back, slipping his fingers underneath Connor's t-shirt so that he can stroke them back and forth over bare skin. He can feel the hard, solid press of Connor's member against him, insistent even as Connor tries not to draw attention to it. Becker knows him well, he is coming to realise. "Let's go," he says. "I need to get you back home. Right now."
Connor climbs off of him, sliding reluctantly into the passenger seat and giving Becker a chance to tuck himself away and rezip his trousers. "You so owe me," Connor tells him.
"I intend to pay up," Becker promises. He might not be bold enough to jerk Connor off in public, but as soon as they are alone he will more than make up for his modesty.
Connor isn't the only one who knows how to make good use of his tongue.
Pairing: Becker/Connor
Word Count: 1647
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the 'dirty talk' square of my kink bingo card.
Summary: "Connor never stops talking while they are working - Becker thinks, belatedly, that he should have realised that he wouldn't shut up in bed either."
Connor never stops talking while they are working - Becker thinks, belatedly, that he should have realised that he wouldn't shut up in bed either.
"Been thinking about this all day," Connor says, wriggling like live fluid in Becker's lap as he tries to pull their clothes free all at once. He is tangled in the straps of Becker's empty holsters, with so much to unclip and unwind. "Wanting you inside me. Your cock..."
Connor doesn't give details, and for that Becker can only be thankful. He doesn't think he would be able to remain in control. A sticky stain would coat the inside of his trousers.
They are cramped and cornered in the front seat of Becker's car, barely hidden from the outside world. Becker chooses a secluded parking spot in the mornings, but 'secluded' is different from 'invisible'. Anyone could walk past; Becker doesn't think he would ever be able to stop blushing if Lester walked past them like this. It isn't as if their arrangement (relationship? Becker doesn't know what this is) is a secret - but it is private.
Yet Connor is in his lap and his lips are pushing insistently along Becker's jawline, and no man in the world is strong enough to resist that. Becker's hands slide down to cup the roundness of Connor's arse through his ridiculously tight jeans: impractical. It's clear he isn't a soldier, but right now Becker doesn't care to scold him. He runs his fingers along the seam of his jeans, tracing the ass crack underneath. "God, yeah," Connor breathes against his skin. "You need to fuck me. Here."
And they can't. They really can't. "At home, Connor," Becker says - he doesn't know whose 'home' he is talking about. Perhaps it doesn't matter. He has spent as many nights in Connor's room as in his own bed. They are trapped together, whether they want to be or not.
"No." Connor shakes his head, immature and insistent: wanting everything now, immediately, no time for waiting. "Here, right here."
"We'll be caught," Becker says. He is trying to sound stern, but with Connor's hips pushing against him 'stern' is impossible: pliant, willing and weak are all that he can manage.
"So?" Connor pants. He doesn't mean that, can't mean that. Despite the prat-falls and idiocy of his every day life, Becker thinks that Connor must still have some vague sense of shame. "Let them catch us, I don't care. They can see you fucking me, here."
Becker chokes on a lungful of air, unable to breathe past the images that Connor is implanting in his mind.
"Yeah, here," Connor repeats, with a hint of a moan that is far more sexual than anyone like Connor has a reasonable right to sound. "It'll let them all know I'm yours, right?"
Becker nods, blindly, and he allows his large hand to slip around to the back of Connor's neck, holding him still for a moment. "Are you?" he asks.
They've never said that before. This odd, helpful arrangement between the pair of them had been unspoken; he has never allowed himself to think about it.
"Yours?" Connor asks, and there's a note of breathless desperation in his voice that lets Becker know not to trust a word he says right now. He can't hold him to any of it. It would be unfair: cheating. "Sure, I'm yours. Completely. Honest."
Becker nods. "Goes both ways," he says, even if Connor doesn't look at him in the way that he looks at Abby. That's fine with Becker. He has never been looking for anything too emotionally complicated anyway.
Connor tilts his hips back and sits straddled across Becker's lap. He reaches between them to rip open Becker's trousers and pull out his cock, red and hard and so public, now. Connor spits into his hand to slick things along, and even if Becker won't fuck him here in a public parking lot (he can't let himself do it here) it will make this feel a lot better. Connor's hand is sturdy and confident as he grasps hold of him.
"Yours," he repeats again. "Anything you want to do with me, you can. I promise I won't say no. I'll try anything once." Connor smiles, wide and dopey. It should be impossible for anyone to look so cheerfully enthusiastic while they have a sinful grasp on a person's cock. "Anything you want. When we make it back to yours, you could tie me up if you'd like. Scarves or handcuffs or whatever. Right around my wrists. Hold me down."
Becker groans and pushes his hips upwards, nearly dislodging Connor in his single-minded attempt to get more of the sensation on offer. Connor's hand moves a little bit too slowly: not quite what he needs. He can only hope that Connor won't decide to make him beg for it.
"You could hit me," Connor suggests, and when Becker muffles a cry Connor's grin widens. "Yeah, hold me down over your lap and slap my arse. How's that sound?"
Becker nods blindly. It sounds good. Everything sounds good right now. His eyes close, screwed tightly, and all that he can feel is Connor's hand on his dick, all he can hear is Connor's smiling, dirty voice.
"Hit me 'til my skin goes red, until I'm begging for you to stop because it hurts too much or feels too good or something like that." Connor runs his free hand through Becker's hair, messing up every neatened lock.
"I'm going to gag you," Becker says, surprising himself by being able to say a single word.
Connor falters, his hand stopping. "Sorry," he says. Becker opens his eyes and finds that kicked-puppy expression on Connor's face, the kind of look designed to make a man feel guilty. "Am I annoying you? I didn't mean to."
"No, no, it's not that." Becker shakes his head in a hurry, almost making himself dizzy, because that is the furthest thing from the truth he could imagine. He is achingly hard in Connor's motionless hand because of the words that have spilled from Connor's seemingly innocent lips. "I can't think. When you're talking, I can't think."
Connor seems to relax, reassured, and his hand begins to move again. Becker gives a groaning sigh of relief and melts into his seat, allowing Connor to become his world once more. "I don't want you to think," Connor says. "Thinking is for when you're being the 'big bad soldier'. When you're with me..." His thumb drags over the tip of Becker's cock, pressure firm and perfect. Becker cries out, loud enough that he knows they must be able to hear him outside of the car.
A wet stripe along his neck tells him that Connor's tongue is tasting his skin, licking away the damp sweat that gathers there. Becker shivers, on the edge by now and close to spilling over completely. "When you're with me, I don't think you should be thinking anything at all. I'm not. Away from you, my head gets all busy. Evolution and anomalies and everything. It's mad." As Connor speaks, Becker tries incredibly hard to listen. With Connor's hand jerking him off, it is all that he can do to remember to breathe. Connor's words filter through him, wrap around him, and pull him another precious inch closer to the edge. "But when you're here - all I think about is getting you like this. All sweaty and red and hot. So bloody gorgeous like this, I mean it. Jesus."
Becker clings onto Connor's hips, nearly dislodging him once more as he thrusts up and up into the tight embrace of his fist. This is perfect, perfect, exactly what he needs after a day at the Arc. His hand slides up to the back of Connor's head as he feels himself right on the edge, and he pulls him forward - kisses that dirty mouth so that Connor falls silent with a pleased grunt. Becker's body burns and aches so sweetly, and the car is filled with the slick sound of skin on skin, of the wet sticking smacks of Connor's hand around his cock.
Connor's tongue is as wicked when they kiss as when they talk, flicking inside Becker's mouth: Becker can do little more than open his mouth and allow the invasion, too lost to participate further, but Connor seems willing to accommodate such unhelpfulness. He kisses with an earnestness that becomes him, wet enthusiasm spurred with endless energy. Becker's body tightens and winds until he cries out against the gag of Connor's mouth, spilling across his fist and shirt.
Connor strokes him through his orgasm, dragging it out and leaving Becker whimpering beneath him, lost and found at once.
Connor's lips leave his mouth and he travels across Becker's jaw, trailing kisses and flashes of his tongue that tease and promise at once. "You're so hot," he mutters over and over again. "So hot; how is that even possible? Christ."
Becker catches his breath and slides his hand around to the small of Connor's back, slipping his fingers underneath Connor's t-shirt so that he can stroke them back and forth over bare skin. He can feel the hard, solid press of Connor's member against him, insistent even as Connor tries not to draw attention to it. Becker knows him well, he is coming to realise. "Let's go," he says. "I need to get you back home. Right now."
Connor climbs off of him, sliding reluctantly into the passenger seat and giving Becker a chance to tuck himself away and rezip his trousers. "You so owe me," Connor tells him.
"I intend to pay up," Becker promises. He might not be bold enough to jerk Connor off in public, but as soon as they are alone he will more than make up for his modesty.
Connor isn't the only one who knows how to make good use of his tongue.